


love ain't afraid (so why are you?)

by hummingbirdswords



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hummingbirdswords/pseuds/hummingbirdswords
Summary: It begins with routine mirror calls at the end of their busy days, a way to reconnect, to stay in touch, to grow closer. But when trips down memory lane are paired with the not-so-minor romantic feelings Hecate has that refuse to go away, the two witches just might make a mess of everything. But who's to say a little mess isn't needed sometimes? (Hecate Hardbroom, that's who!)





	love ain't afraid (so why are you?)

**Author's Note:**

> "This was supposed to be a one shot..." title of my autobiography. 
> 
> As always, thanks to my personal cheerleader and the only reason I stay sane when I'm writing, Keziah! 
> 
> HUGE thanks to Eliza for being the most encouraging bean and quieting my doubts when I was pretty sure I should just trash this and forget the idea. 
> 
> So much thanks to Anna for encouraging me and talking through some things with me (and for THAT idea I can't wait to get to). 
> 
> Really, just thank you to basically everybody hahaha because all the hicsqueak peeps on twitter are angels who are so supportive and lovely.
> 
> Love Ain't Afraid by Melissa Ferrick inspired the title !

Hecate finishes her nightly rounds with Mildred Hubble, and it is only once she is confident all the pupils are in their proper rooms, secure for the night, that she transfers into her own private quarters. She materialises in front of the fireplace and immediately checks the time on the clock that sits atop the mantle—right on time. Punctual, precise, and far stricter with herself than she is even with her students, she does not make habit of falling out of routine. Everything is planned down to the minute in her mind, and she loathes when even the slightest inconvenience forces her to adjust, to change something last minute. Honestly, it throws her off, and that just doesn’t sit well with the witch who has always depended on the reliability of structure and routine.

 

Eyes falling shut, she holds her hands out in front of the crackling fire and welcomes its heat, allows it to wash over her and slip beneath her skin, swim through her body and twine with the magic and blood that flows through her. She is often cold, and as she had already removed the heavy fabric of her dress and replaced it with a satin pyjama set and her dressing gown, the drafty castle’s chill had seeped all the way down to her bones during her walk. Before she goes deeper into her room, goes to sit in front of her mirror for the nightly call that has been part of her routine the last three weeks or so, she simply stands before the fire and clears her mind. She takes steadying breaths that help her feel centered. After a long day, it is what she needs, a calmness after dealing with the rambunctious antics of the second years.

 

Deep breath in. She rolls her head back and her shoulders around, neck stretching, throat constricting. Her spine, now naturally stiff after years of forcing rigidity into her perfect posture, loosens ever so slightly. It aches—she aches. Everything aches. She permits the groan that feels trapped inside her chest freedom to escape and parts her lips, breathing out the sound that is rough and deep as her head falls forward and her muscles pull. Her slender fingers push her thick hair aside and work over her neck, massaging below her hairline and over to her shoulders, gripping, digging, pressing into the tight places where she needs a harder pressure to relieve some of the tension. For a moment she longs for the pounding of too hot water on her body, but it is only for a brief moment, a thought as frivolous and almost as indulgent as a second shower for the night would be.

 

Hecate does not _do_ frivolous, and she is not one to indulge even the smallest pleasures.

 

After checking the time once more, she brushes her hands down her dressing gown, neatens her hair, and corrects her posture, rolling her shoulders back to their proper place while crossing over to the other side of the room. Even alone, her footsteps are stealthy, no heels to click against the floor, only bare feet. She no longer puts much thought into the precise way she does things—not the way she walks with complete control of her every movement, nor the way she enunciates her words just so. It’s second nature to her now. Years of being told to sit up straighter, of having senior witches and mentors snap at her like a leather whip if she so much as spoke out of turn, everything done to _correct_ her, made sure of it.

 

She sometimes wishes she were different, that she was more tolerable, for she knows she is simply too much for some people to handle, likened to a chore, an inconvenience—she has been told as much enough times to know the problem resides within herself and not others. But she does not allow herself to wish too often. Witches do not _wish_ and _hope._  A witch makes what they want happen, or they accept what they have and move on, continue as though the desire never existed in the first place.

 

Continuing as though the desire never existed, she thinks with a fair amount of self-deprecation, she has failed terribly at more than once in her life—and failure is simply unacceptable. She is reminded of this as she sits down at her vanity in front of the large mirror and waits for her routine call to begin. There has always been one particular wanting she has not been able to extinguish, and, as planned, perfectly on time, not a moment late, she is soon face to face with the object of said desire, the single fancy she has never been able to rid herself of properly.

 

Pippa Pentangle appears in Hecate’s mirror, fresh-faced with a delicate flush of color to her skin that is reminiscent of the dianthus deltoides she grows. The corner of Hecate’s mouth turns upward instantaneously, as automatic as the small spark of magic that buzzes in her bloodstream like an announcement of pleasure sweeping through her body. The magic she calms, forces to settle, but the smile she allows, pleased when Pippa’s own smile grows to levels of brightness that Hecate might find obnoxious on any other face but simply adores when it’s Pippa.

 

“You look—” one says while the other begins, “Today has been—”

 

Pippa laughs with the freedom of a witch whose soul is at peace, a sweet giggle that knots itself up in Hecate’s belly. Hecate screws her eyes shut immediately, drums her fingers against the solid wood of her vanity a total of nine times, in groups of threes, and warns herself of the dangers of getting lost in the beauty of Pippa’s laughter, her charm, all the lovely things that Hecate knows she’s not supposed to love as much as she does but cannot help being drawn to no matter how hard she tries to deny that she is—that she always has been.

 

Pippa hums gently, her laughter quieting. “You first. I want to hear how your day went. How did the girls do on their practice exams?”

 

The mock exams, Hecate mentally repeats as she opens her eyes and focuses on the pair patiently waiting for her attention. This, Hecate can handle. No need to shut down any of what she feels, no worries that she is once again hanging on to every word that leaves Pippa’s mouth like a schoolgirl with a foolish crush. No. This, this is easy.

 

And easy it remains as she regales Pippa with the story of how her classroom became the epicenter of another one of the second years’ disastrous attempts at a rather rudimentary potion. With fluorescent goo dripping down the side of her face and her carefully stocked herbs and ingredients made a proper mess of, Hecate had not an ounce of humour in her body at the time. But the way Pippa’s eyes grow wide and she leans in closer to the mirror, completely enraptured, makes Hecate’s heart rush, makes her want to keep Pippa on the edge of her seat, and her dry humor slips in, a little smirk here, an almost laugh there, and by the time she finishes, she can almost forget how tightly wound she had been earlier.

 

“Sounds like you have had quite the day, my dear Hecate.” Pippa leans back into her plush armchair—ivory and not pink as Hecate had imagined it might be before their first private mirror call—and pulls her bare legs up with her, the golden light from a fire that’s out of sight giving Pippa an otherworldly glow. “Would it be terribly awful if I said that I’m almost envious?”

 

“Envious?” Hecate repeats with disbelief, her mouth puckering up once the word has left it, eyebrows raising toward her hairline with confusion. “Whyever would you—”

 

“Oh, you know, the _fun_ of it all. Don’t get me wrong,” she says, holding up her hand just as Hecate begins to work her lips around new words, “we have plenty of fun here every day. Students, no matter their backgrounds, will always find a way to add a little extra pizazz to even the most tedious of tasks when their imaginations are given the space to play—”

 

“And therein lies the problem,” Hecate interjects sourly. “A classroom is _not_ the place for _playing,_ not for students, and certainly not their... _imaginations._ ” The word barely fits on her tongue, sounds strange as she forces it out.

 

Pippa only rolls her eyes fondly whilst curling up around a fluffy pillow, completely unguarded and small, reminding Hecate of all the times Pippa had come to her room after hours when they were schoolgirls and she’d fall asleep on the corner of Hecate’s bed just like that. Pippa had almost always fallen asleep snuggling Hecate’s pillow with a book levitating before her that would inevitably fall with a heavy thud once Pippa’s magic no longer kept it suspended in air. The memory, the clarity of it, how Hecate can still remember the way Pippa would murmur sleepily about staying the night when Hecate tried to wake her, nearly makes her choke on the air her brain and lungs forget how to properly transport from her mouth.

 

She doesn’t choke, though. Instead, she presses the tips of her nails into her palms and squeezes tightly until she can feel the sting of pain that gives her something safe to focus on. Her face feels warm and heat has crawled up her spine and her nape. It isn’t unlikely that she is blushing, but, if she is, Pippa doesn’t notice, is already continuing what she had been saying before Hecate interrupted her.

 

“I only meant that some days it’s all rather routine, you know, a bit _boring._ I’d enjoy a little more mischief from time to time,” Pippa admits with a bit of laughter clinging to her words.

 

Hecate doesn’t take offense, but she is quick to remind the other witch that, “Routines means consistency. With consistency comes control, and control of oneself when in relation to magic is _quite_ important—especially for young witches in the early stages of learning the craft. They're prone to underestimating just how much power they have inside of them and the amount of control it takes to properly wield it.”

 

“Of course you would say that. I am not surprised.”

 

Brow lifting slowly, Hecate questions, “Do you not agree?”

 

“Oh, no, I do. Of course.” Pippa waves a hand in the air in front of her and scrunches her face up, the bridge of her nose wrinkling endearingly. “I’m not dismissing the importance of consistency, or even routines for that matter.”

 

“Then...?” she presses.

 

Pippa’s shoulders shrug, and for a moment it appears as though she means to say no more. But then she chuckles and grins, a faraway look in her eyes. “I just remember what you’re like when you’re not so...restrictive with yourself. You may have others fooled, my dear Hecate, but you forget I know you better than most.” She sounds almost proud of this. “You can deny it until you’re blue in the face, but I know part of you is absolutely thrilled when you’re a little reckless.”

 

The knowing look Pippa gives her makes Hecate’s spine straighten instinctively as if to inaudibly argue against the accusation. “I believe you remember incorrectly. I have never been—” she pauses for a full beat, possibly two, the offending word rolling out of her mouth slowly, sounding as though it has traveled through a messy twist of thorny vines and across gravel before being spoken, “— _reckless._ ” She denies the very possibility although she knows she’s lying.

 

And Pippa does as well, and she doesn’t allow it. “Are we really going to pretend now, Hiccup? Some of my most treasured memories of the two of us together would easily discredit you. Perhaps I should begin refreshing your memory, because I am certainly not the one who has remembered incorrectly.”

 

“No.” The word snaps in the air, sharp. Her heart speeds up as memories flash through her mind: fingers laced together as Pippa pulled her through overgrown fields, blonde hair flying in front of her face as Pippa zipped through the sky whilst shouting in excitement with their freedom, eyes too bright and far too brilliant while Pippa encouraged her to dance under the moonlight and stars with her. “No,” she insists again, not quite sure she wants to fully relive any of the possible memories Pippa could be thinking of, especially with Pippa able to witness her every reaction. “That won’t be necessary.”

 

“So long as you know that I remember it all,” Pippa says, and there are deeper meanings hidden beneath the simplicity of her words, Hecate can tell, for Pippa holds her eyes as she says this, eyes too bright and brilliant like they were all those years ago. “Everything. I remember it all,” she whispers, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, biting down on a smile.

 

Hecate doesn’t purposely watch the way Pippa’s teeth slide over her plump lip. No. Of course she doesn’t. She just happens to let her eyes lower until Pippa’s mouth is the only thing she notices. If she follows the scrape of Pippa’s teeth over the pink flesh, takes in every minuscule detail from the shine of Pippa’s gloss to the flick of the blonde’s tongue when it peeks out after her lip is freed, licking the same path, it’s only because she has always been observant and Pippa is directly in front of her. It has nothing to do with how, for that very brief moment, she can almost feel the delicious pressure of teeth on her own lips, nothing to do with wanting to be the one who gets to suck Pippa’s lip into the warmth of her mouth—no, certainly not.

 

Subconsciously, Hecate licks her own lips whilst looking away. She swallows down the hungry sound in her throat before it can be heard and lights a few of the candles around her, feeling the familiar buildup of energy inside of her, the warming in her belly, and needing something to do with it. Her fingers flutter through the air, fire catching the candle wicks one by one. She exhales a calm breath when all three are lit, and neatly folds her hands on her lap, out of sight to hide the way they twitch every so often.

 

Her throat clears. She searches for a new topic to discuss but comes up short. Pippa looks comfortable sitting in the silence, pillow tucked between her head and the chair, silky blonde hair cascading over the armrest, heavy eyelids giving away her fatigue. She is a beautiful picture of contentment while Hecate feels as though a family of bats have made home inside her body and are flapping their wings inside of her, navigating through her darkness, all too happy to explore what keeps most away.

 

She reaches for her timepiece, allows the chain to slip between her fingers.

 

“Eleven minutes more,” Pippa informs her softly before Hecate has opened the watch to reveal the time.

 

Hecate’s hand falls away, back to her lap. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re quite welcome,” Pippa murmurs, smiling faintly before she covers her mouth and yawns daintily.

 

Frowning, Hecate waits until Pippa readjusts before she questions, “Would you like to cut this short? If you’re too tired—”

 

“Hmm? No, I’m fine. Not one for much of a chat,” she admits apologetically, “perhaps even quite the bore—”

 

“You’re not a bore,” Hecate tells her in a soft whisper. Even quieter, face warming, she adds, “You never are.”

 

Pippa smiles at her and lets her eyes fall shut, snuggling the pillow and humming sweetly. “Well, in that case, I’d rather like to continue mirroring you until you are ready to end the call. I’ve missed you.”

 

Hecate feels a heavy thud against her ribs. A sudden rush of dizziness smacks into her; her breath catches in her throat and she reaches up to her neck on instinct, as though she can claw out the bit of emotion trapped there and burn it to ash.

 

“We spoke last night,” she reminds, needing to distract herself from how extraordinary it feels to be missed, to hear the words leave Pippa’s mouth in her sleepy whisper. She knows it means more to her than it should, that her body shouldn’t buzz the way it does, that she shouldn’t suddenly feel so terribly warm all over. She feels too much.

 

Far too many people think her cold, heartless, unfeeling. If only they could see the way her magic wildly dances inside her, the way it whirls and twirls about, how it zips through her body and lights her up from the inside. Magic and emotion are connected, and hers have always been powerful, strong, and intense in ways that are invisible to the naked eye. Hecate’s problem has never been that she does not feel, that she lacks empathy or the ability to reach her emotions. On the contrary, she feels as though she is in a never-ending battle with them, often pushing down how she feels and minimizing emotions so she doesn’t frighten people away once they learn the true capabilities of her heart.

 

Pippa doesn’t allow Hecate to simply dismiss her words. She acknowledges that, yes they did speak the previous night, and continues by saying, “And the night before, and the one before that, and four, five, six more nights before that one.” She peeks out of just one eye, smirking. “We have spoken to each other every night for several weeks, and yet, the truth remains: I’ve missed you. Does that surprise you?”

 

She knows Pippa’s teasing, doesn’t require an answer, but an answer leaves her mouth nonetheless. “Yes, yes it does,” Hecate says in all honesty.

 

The frown that pulls at Pippa’s mouth makes Hecate want to suck her words back into her own mouth so she can chew them up and swallow them down so Pippa never has to know how insecure she still is, how she might never truly be anything but. It’s not pity in the brown eyes that try to hold her gaze through the mirror, not exactly. There’s a touch of understanding, a bit of sadness, but mostly what Hecate sees is sheer determination, fierce and unmistakable.

 

All too quickly, Pippa is on the edge of her chair, looking at Hecate with a face that demands all of Hecate’s attention. She’s powerless against it. Her own discomfort is forgotten, her usual inability to continuously look others in the eye for long stretches of time pushed aside.

 

“Goodness, Hecate,” Pippa breathes out heavily, “you really haven’t the slightest idea just how often you’re in my thoughts, or, or how even when only moments have passed since we last spoke to each other, I wish only to be able to hear your voice again because it feels as though it’s been too long since the last time I did.” Shaking her head, she smiles. But her smile is not one of warmth and happiness. No. She smiles sadly. “I know you probably think me silly for it, but I probably miss you most when we have these calls.

 

“I do, yes, I do,” Pippa decides with certainty, nodding her head. “And I know that might not be something that makes sense to you. I _know_ that it might sound illogical to you, and I understand that. But it’s what I feel in here,” she tells Hecate, placing a hand above her heart. “All those years apart...” She huffs out an exaggerated breath and falls backward into her seat, twisting her lips together and biting the inside of her cheek. “Maybe I’ve spent too long thinking about what we were like as children and I miss being...close.” Her eyes fall shut now. “Perhaps I miss you so much because I remember what it’s like to always have you at my side, and I rather enjoyed having my best friend constantly there.”

 

Hecate’s heartbeat falls out of pattern, skips a beat, rushes to make up for it, and then pounds far too harshly in her chest. She’s at a loss for words. She attempts to respond, mouth opening, working around syllables, sounds, but only an incomprehensible stutter tumbles out. She snaps her mouth shut tightly and thins her lips, seals them together with the annoyance she feels toward herself for being unable to prepare a decent response to Pippa’s honest words. She despises the way she struggles with something that should be easy, but communicating and vulnerabilities have never been _easy_ for Hecate.

 

Deep breath in. Hecate counts in multiples of threes, tapping her fingers against her thigh. _Three... Six... Nine... Twelve... Fifteen... Eighteen... Twenty-one... Twenty-four... Twenty-seven..._ “I don’t think you’re silly.” Pippa slowly opens her eyes, and Hecate lifts the corner of her mouth into a small smile. “It isn't silly, and I do understand. I, I often miss you, too, despite the amount of time that has passed since our last conversation.”

 

It isn’t much, but Pippa looks absolutely pleased, and that is enough to make Hecate feel settled. There is more she wants to say, more that she feels, more she knows Pippa might like to hear—but for now, that is enough.

 

Pippa pulls her pillow into her arms and curls up in her chair, but she doesn’t close her eyes this time. In silence, she looks at Hecate, and Hecate tries not to fidget under her watch, too aware of herself but unwilling to attempt to hide away from Pippa when, despite everything else Hecate believes, she knows Pippa, for some strange reason, has always found a sense of peace in her company.

 

So they sit, the last minutes of their mirror call quiet but the perfect ending to Hecate’s day.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading. hope you've enjoyed the start of their journey :)


End file.
